His Promise
by Got Tea
Summary: Boyd and Grace take an afternoon walk in the woods - what could possibly go wrong?


**This story was originally written weeks ago now for missDuncan. Since then I made a bet with Gemenied that if I finished it, she would have to finish something too...  
Many, many thanks to Joodiff for being far, far more patient than I deserve, and for betaing this for me three times when I kept changing my mind and adding and altering bits. **

* * *

**His Promise**

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep." ~ Robert Frost

 **…**

"What, exactly, are you hoping to achieve with this… ridiculous… whatever this is?"

She's grumbling, and Grace knows it, even as she directs her attention to ducking around the low-hanging, insect-infested, particularly slimy and soggy decaying branch that is threatening to try and knock her off the path she is currently doing her best to navigate as safely – and as irritably – as possible. Well aware she sounds rather more like an obnoxious, prickly teenager than the mature, professional woman she is supposed to be, she's also conscious of the fact that at this particular moment in time, she cares very little. Hiking through a dense stretch of bleak, shadowy forest on a cold winter afternoon is, after all, not very close to the top of her list of preferred activities. Nor the middle. Or, come to that, the bottom.

To be fair, she's also more than aware that their current activity hardly constitutes anything Boyd himself considers as a pleasurable way to pass the time, and her needling him is unlikely to achieve anything other than widening the already considerable gap between a happy, content Boyd, and the current grumpy, irritable, heading-rapidly-towards-explosive-and-yet-still-mindlessly-driven-towards-proving-his-point location of his mood.

It is, Grace reflects rather ruefully, something of a recipe for disaster.

Not exactly what she'd had in mind when the bright light of early morning summoned her from slumber and she lay, warm and content beneath the blankets, quietly pondering the direction of her day. But, largely thanks to an aggravating, overzealous defence barrister, here they are. In the middle of a forest. In November.

Boyd spares her a quick glance over his shoulder, even as he keeps forging ahead. His eyes are dark, his brows drawn down just a fraction – a clear warning that she chooses not to heed, even as, still somehow managing to admirably maintain a relatively mild tone, he says, "Come on, Grace, you _know_ what we're looking for. Just… help me out here, hmm?"

"Help you out?" she repeats, her irritation rising even further, despite her best attempts to quell it. "We're trekking through a cold, muddy, soggy forest – on a _Saturday_ , no less – looking for a clearing that even the satellite imagery says doesn't exist, just so you can shove it in the face of Michael Howard on Monday morning."

"And?" Boyd's voice is muffled by the space between them, leaving Grace with nothing else to do but glower at the back of his head, absolutely disinclined to yield her position. Maybe it's uncharitable of her and maybe she's being more than just a little bit unfair on him, but today the devil is sitting firmly on her shoulder, and she really doesn't feel like mustering the energy or the patience to repress it.

"I still don't see why you couldn't have just dragged Spence or Stella along with you and left me at home in peace," she mutters resentfully, kicking a loose stone out of her way and watching as it skims across the muddy track and bounces away into the undergrowth somewhere, lost from view forevermore.

Still moving along the overgrown trail at a considerable pace, he looks back at her again and sighs, his mounting frustration clearly apparent. "We've already been through this," he replies, and she can now definitely hear the effort it's taking for his voice to remain so even. "They're searching on the other side of the road, you know that! Splitting up was the quickest way to cover the area we need to."

Sometimes, despite her best intentions, she can be just as petulant and childish as he can. This appears to be one of those times. "Then you should have dragged Eve along instead of me!"

He is evidently rapidly running out of patience. It's clearly audible in the overly controlled tone he uses as he steadily answers her. "She's gone off to that damned conference, remember? She asked for the time off months ago; it was either you, or I go alone and violate health and safety protocol."

"And you think dragging me out here _isn't_ a health and safety issue?"

"For God's sake, Grace! Do you think I'm not seriously wishing right now that I hadn't decided that not breaking the rules for once was the right thing to do?"

"Thanks a lot!" she snipes, deliberately glancing away from his increasing scowl. Boyd turns, looking ahead again and concentrating on the overgrown mess supposedly resembling a path that they are following.

Lapsing into silence, Grace remains where she is, trudging along behind him and growing chillier and grumpier by the minute. It would be just her luck to catch a cold, she thinks darkly. This is all Eve's fault. Damn her and her poorly-timed trip to Prague.

Left with nothing but her own thoughts to stew over, Grace finds herself plotting ways of exacting revenge on the man in front of her. The man who, against her better judgement, she fell deeply and hopelessly in love with. The man who, far too early this morning, used every ounce of the charm and enticement available in his arsenal to convince her to leave her warm, soft bed and accompany him on a long drive followed by an even longer – and far colder – expedition into a relatively remote area of forest. The man who promised faithfully that it really wouldn't be as bad as it sounded, and that she might actually enjoy it if she allowed herself to.

Maybe he has a point, she thinks, making a conscious effort to try and relax her mind, to open herself up to her surroundings. The fresh, clean air certainly has something that is absent in the chaotic infusion of scents that perpetually permeate the dusty, heavy London atmosphere. And she has to admit that the scenery has a certain charm to it. Looking around as she walks isn't exactly easy – it's taking an awful lot of her concentration just to navigate the uneven, moderately treacherous ground beneath her feet – but, in an effort to at least shrug off some of her irritation, she gives it a try.

If she's completely honest with herself, Grace has no idea where this afternoon's sudden hostility and anger have come from. It's not as if she doesn't like walking – she does; always has done, in fact. Heavier exercise, perhaps not, but walking has always been a favourite hobby, a relaxing way to pass the time, or even a suitable diversion when she's needed time to herself to consider problems or issues she's had to deal with, both professional and personal.

It must be this case, she thinks, eyes falling on a single branch of the tree she's currently circumnavigating, a branch that seems utterly determined to grow across the pathway no matter what contorted shape it has to bend itself into. There are a handful of leaves left hanging there, defiant to the last in the face of their lost season, and each one a stunning shade of autumn red, gold or bronze. Beauty and obstinacy, all rolled into one. Not, she muses, unlike the man ahead of her.

Two birds zip from one branch to another, a host of angry chatter audible between them as one flees and the other gives chase; Grace tries to track them with her gaze, but they are too fast, disappearing from view before she can determine their species. She can still hear their bickering though, and it reminds her of something she'd rather not think about. This case has been… challenging. Personally as well as professionally. They've walked through a veritable minefield to get as far as they have, and though that's nothing new, it's the first time in what is now nearly a year, that there have been consequences at home. The first time that a professional dispute has been thorny enough to present more than just a hint of an intrusion into the relatively harmonious domestic union they have worked hard to achieve, and enjoy. And she resents it.

It's not insurmountable; of that, Grace is absolutely certain. Both of them are far too committed, have invested far too much in each other to give up now, but the escalating tension of the last few weeks nevertheless stings rather more than she expected it to when she first predicted the oncoming trouble, and he instinctively bridled against her warning, determined to forge ahead with the new lead they had discovered, despite the potential pitfalls. He's tenacious, and stubborn to last, she thinks, her mind circling back to that train of thought again. They're qualities in him that she finds extremely infuriating, but also simultaneously powerfully attractive.

She knows he's well aware of what it is that's currently unsettling them both, and maybe that's why she's angry with him. Angry that in the few hours of work-free time they currently have, he insisted on dragging the very thing she wanted to temporarily escape back into their lives. Insisted that it really couldn't wait another day, or even just a few more hours. And while he may very well be right about the case, and the incredibly tight timeframe they are working to, she still begrudges it. It's an impossible conundrum that only time will solve.

Lost in the tangle of thoughts that follow their own path, Grace eventually finds herself staring fixedly at the back of her lover's neck, eyes drawn to the edge of his hairline and the spot that, if she presses impossibly soft, barely-even-there kisses against, results rapidly in gentle shivers and an impressively quiet, sluggishly languid teddy bear-like creature. One who is quietly open to suggestion, and, given the right incentive, willing to do almost anything she wants him to.

Really, she should have tried her luck earlier.

It's entertaining, though, imagining what she could do to him later on when they are both safely home again. Warm, dry, and relaxing in the comfort of her living room. Or bedroom. When she's either forgiven him, or is intent of achieving some kind of tormenting, yet intensely pleasurable, revenge.

Mmm, yes…

Mind wandering just as much as her eyes, which are now watching the movement of powerful, broad shoulders, and the incredibly appealing, easy muscularity visible in the shift of his hips, thighs and backside beneath the well-worn denim of his jeans as he continues to stride on, Grace imagines catching him as he comes out of the bathroom, fresh from the shower. Imagines twining her arms around him from behind and pressing a maddeningly slow line of heated, lingering kisses along the breadth of those incredibly tempting shoulders, and then moving on up the side of his neck, her teeth nipping lightly and her tongue trailing across that ridiculously sensitive spot at the base of his skull. Imagining the shivers such tactics elicit, she fancies can almost taste his skin, can almost feel the sharp intake of breath and the building strain in his body as he fights the urge to turn around and assert control.

Grinning wickedly to herself, she lets her mind explore and re-explore the delightful concept of bare skin pressed tightly against bare skin and the tantalising, evocative warmth generated by the contact between their bodies. Her fingers itch to reach out and touch as the vision of a very slow, very definitely taunting fingertip exploration of every accessible inch of him plays out in vivid, highly sensory detail within her mind.

It's a good plan, she decides decisively, her smile still impishly smug; she's going to drive him half-crazy with want and need and desperate, aching desire, and, knowing full well exactly how tactile he is, how much he enjoys the freedom to touch that their intimate relationship has granted him, she's going to refuse to let him lay a finger on her for the entire duration. And she's going to revel in the frustrated, tumultuous fire in those dark eyes, and the shaking tension in his muscles as he fights to hold on to his control, because fight he will – most definitely. If she lays down the rules, he will follow them, for he is just as stubborn and determined as she is, just as unwilling to give her any advantage to hold over him.

In fact, if she tells him that –

Sadly though, her thoroughly enjoyable thoughts are interrupted by the increased difficulty she's having in following him through the trees. In his determination to prove his point, he is walking just a little too fast for her, and, slightly older, regrettably not as physically fit at he is, and in possession of a considerably smaller stride, Grace is finding it more than just a little bit difficult to both navigate the rough terrain, and keep up with him.

"Boyd," she calls out, a little breathlessly. "Slow down, please."

"What?" Clearly preoccupied, he pauses mid-stride and pivots, turning his entire body as he looks around at her. He eyes her carefully, though, and swiftly realises what she's really asking, for this is not the first time they have had this particular problem. "Sorry – I forgot. You want to stop for a minute?"

She nods, turning to survey the scenery around her as Boyd manages to stand quietly beside her for just a few seconds before inevitably beginning to pace, meandering off the path a little in his impatient, edgy restlessness. The trees rustle slightly in the chill breeze; the undergrowth is still, dark green and damp. Earthy scents permeate the sharp, cold autumn air and, looking around, she can see nothing but a sea of varying shades of evergreens interspersed with the chaotic tangle of browns from deciduous trees that have long since lost their leaves to the season. The light drifts down through cracks and gaps in the branches; dim and indistinct it offers little more than the gloom of a dusk that has not yet fallen. Off to her left though, something is different. The light is dissimilar, altered enough to catch her attention; more of it seems to be filtering down from high overhead, making her wonder why.

"Boyd? Come and look at this."

"Mm? Yeah…" The answer is faint; he's not dismissive, but he isn't paying much attention either. He seems to have wandered off a little way; she can't see him anymore, and that only serves to pique her annoyance yet again.

Irked, and too cold to stay completely still, Grace steps off the trail to investigate, promptly making the easy mistake of looking straight at her target destination and not the path in front of her. Un-used to the forest terrain, and still engrossed in her irritable thoughts, she inadvertently snags her foot in a thick root and, before she can do anything about it, lurches forward, tumbling heavily and inelegantly into the undergrowth. There's a sharp, clearly audible crack, a flare of blazing white heat in her leg, and the scuffle and rustle of leaves and branches as she crashes through a handful of prickly bushes before fetching up against the thick, solid base of a thoroughly immovable old oak tree.

The breath knocked out of her, and simply too stunned to move, or even to think, she gasps uselessly for air as dull, heavy pain sparks in her arms, ribs and left shoulder, the impact of her crash against the tree beginning to make itself felt. A host of cuts and scratches across her neck and face sting sharply, but that's nothing compared to the agony that's burning fiercely in her right ankle. The overpowering, blazing inferno of pain builds quickly, immediately obscuring everything else and leaving her chest feeling oddly frozen, her lungs leaden and inoperable.

"Grace?" The call comes from somewhere off to the other side of the path; it's faint enough to tell her that Boyd is not as close as she thought he was a moment ago. Then again, maybe that's just her hearing – her ears do seem to be ringing somewhat from the impact of her fall. Trying hard to concentrate, she listens for the sound of his voice but the second call of her name is just as far away, maybe even further.

Sudden, irrational fear grips her and she tries desperately to shout out to him but her lungs are empty, refusing to work, and try as she might, she cannot drag air into them. Everything seems to be getting very foggy, very far away from her – even the scent of rotting plant matter is fading now.

"Grace!" Her name again, louder this time. Closer too, maybe. It's hard to tell. There's an elephant sitting on her chest, squashing her lungs, crushing her ribs.

" _Grace_?" Boyd's shout echoes through the trees as he appears abruptly, eyes falling on the dishevelled heap that she is on the ground. "Christ, what the hell happened?" He's beside her in an instant but she can barely see him as he reaches out to help her.

Evidently that doesn't matter though, because then she feels the efficient tug of her scarf being unwound, the buttons on her coat unfastened; his hands are firm as they help her roll onto her side, pushing the constrictive fabric away. Pain builds and flares in her leg at the movement, momentarily eclipsing everything else and leaving her deaf and blind to anything but the crushing agony, but then slowly, gradually she becomes aware of the steady pressure of his palm rubbing soothing circles on her back, the way the way his actions are causing the tension in her chest to begin to ease.

Boyd is talking to her, keeping up a gentle, steady chant as he urges her to take slow, deep breaths, to concentrate on getting the oxygen into her lungs, and when she listens, when she focusses on the sound of his voice, on the simple stream of instructions, Grace finds it helps immeasurably. Finds that she can concentrate on pushing it all back, on regaining control over first her mind, and then her body. Slowly, tentatively, she tries a tiny breath, and then another when the first is successful. Air rushes into her lungs, and it's desperately, icily cold, but maybe that's a good thing, because it seems to have a numbing effect, seems to help beat back some of the overriding, blazing fire.

Panic ebbs as the ability to breathe returns, and eventually she's able to offer him the tiniest hint of a smile. The look she gets in return is a mixture of concern and confusion; understandable really, she thinks, given the state she's in.

For a while he says nothing, instead clearly fixed on assuring himself that the immediate danger has passed, and that she's relatively all right. His hands stop their soothing motion, but remain on her body, travelling instead over her neck, shoulders and spine, checking and searching, the frown on his face getting deeper with each flinch and reactive wince from her as he finds all the particularly tender spots.

"Can you sit up?" he queries and she nods, but still grits her teeth as he pulls and she pushes and the world threatens to spin as the fire rages and blisters yet again. But then, upright and with her back finally resting against the tree trunk, Grace is able to concentrate, able to at least try and summon some shred of equanimity, some hint of her usual level-headed, composed serenity.

It's more difficult than she would like though, because when he asks the entirely expected, "You okay?" she hears but doesn't focus on the considerable amount of concern audible in his tone. Instead she picks out the faint trace of amusement that is hovering there, a trace that inadvertently and completely irrationally sets off the very worst of the emotions currently warring for supremacy inside her.

Utterly humiliated, Grace brushes him off. "I'm _fine_ ," she grinds out, now very firmly caught in the hot, cringing grip of embarrassment. The sceptically raised eyebrows perched above wide, uncertain eyes only serve to make her predicament feel worse, makes her desire to prove it – to him as well as to herself – a sudden, desperate need.

The dubious, "Are you sure?" that's directed her way does nothing to help convince her otherwise. Gripping the tree's trunk, she tucks her left leg beneath her and pushes, quickly forcing herself unsteadily into a stand.

" _Yes_."

The world tilts dangerously, threatening to spin again, and Grace bites down on her lip hard, driving her mind to clear and her trembling limbs to cooperate. Boyd hovers beside her, clearly ready to intervene in her folly, should – when – he needs to. The action immediately grates on her nerves, forces her to bite back a stream of angry words as she gingerly lowers her right foot to the ground, wincing at even the lightest touch of her boot on the slippery, leafy surface.

A disbelieving noise rumbles in the back of Boyd's throat as he watches her and, mortification now morphing into a building, blinding fury at him, at the ridiculousness of the entire situation, at her own stupid, clumsy carelessness, and just about anything else she can think of, Grace shifts her weight, determined to make her way back to the path and away from him under her own steam. But within a single step that determination is in tatters as the pain in her ankle ignites into something that is beyond anything she'd ever previously thought tolerable, and the joint simply gives way beneath her.

Toppling sideways, she's just bracing for the fall when strong arms fasten around her, hauling her back from a second impact. For a moment she's off her feet and in his arms, legs dangling uselessly as he paces briskly through the trees, and then she's being firmly but carefully lowered onto a fallen trunk, right leg stretched out in front of her as he stares calmly, steadily back at her, eyes level with her own as he crouches down in front of the tumbled tree.

"Okay," she concedes, a little sheepish as rationality finally begins to reassert itself. "I'm not fine. My ankle hurts." It's an understatement, certainly, but she's not yet willing enough to give in and tell him just how bad it really feels.

"I would never have guessed," he replies, opting for dry humour, presumably to maintain the sudden truce.

She's wearing boots – hiking boots, even – but they're hardly in the first flush of youth, and they were just this morning hastily foraged from the depths of the cupboard under the stairs where they'd been maintaining a steady residence for at least the last decade, and the disparaging sound Boyd makes regarding their quality as he works his way through the laces is in sharp contrast to the gentleness of his motions. Grace still hisses sharply though, and inadvertently bites down firmly on her bottom lip as he eases the boot away from her foot and slowly peels off her sock.

The sight that greets them isn't positive. Her ankle is swelling already, and when his fingertips conduct a thorough examination she can't quite fight back a heavy groan at the renewed spikes of fierce, white hot fire that burn through the joint, lancing up her leg like red-hot pokers and making her eyes sting and water. His thumb brushing along the sole is nowhere near the soothing sensation he's been known to create for her on occasion when the day has been long and a mood of relaxation takes him.

"Can you wiggle your toes?"

Even the thought of it seems akin to torture, but, gritting her teeth again, Grace tries and grimly she thrusts away the tide of rising panic that threatens to swamp her again when nothing happens. "No."

This time, as he slowly explores the damaged area, tears really do break free and begin to roll steadily down her cheeks. Impatient, and blinking rapidly, she swipes them away before they can drip onto her coat, determined not to let him see just how much it hurts, how bad the stinging, throbbing pain is that his careful, almost hesitant touch is eliciting.

"Definitely broken," is his grim assessment.

"Great," she sighs, fraught and beginning to shiver, but now tenaciously back in control of herself, and the majority of her wayward emotions. "Now what?"

Boyd gazes quietly at her, eyes thoughtful even through the concern that's clearly visible in his features. "We have two options," he begins, and his tone leads Grace to strongly suspect she isn't going to like either of them.

"Go on then," she sighs, the initial adrenaline rush starting to fade, along with every last trace of the stubborn, fighting spirit that's been holding her up for the last few minutes, pain instead leaving her feeling old, cold and very, very tired.

"Either we call for help and wait here for an absolute age while rescue try and find us…"

It's not an appealing prospect. At all. Absolutely positive she doesn't want to hear what the second option is, she asks anyway. "Or…?"

"Or I carry you back to the car."

Definitely not.

It's her turn to raise a sceptical eyebrow. "Boyd, it's at least an hour's hike through the forest, probably more."

"I know that, I walked all the way out here as well."

The broken ankle hurts too much for her to even muster up a decent glare. "It's hardly the same thing as carrying me upstairs to bed just because you're in that sort of mood."

Helping her twist sideways on the log, he sits beside her, carefully resting the damaged leg in his lap. "I know that, but I can manage. We'll be fine."

"Peter…"

He reaches out a hand, pressing his palm to her cheek, thumb brushing a stray blade of grass from her temple as he watches her steadily, eyes full of raw honesty, of a tenderness that he allows few people to see. "Trust me, Grace."

She always has done. Right from the very first time they met when she just knew, deep down and instinctively, that he was more trustworthy than anyone she'd ever known before, despite his raging temper and the seemingly unpredictable shifting nature of his mood.

"We'll be fine," he tells her again, offering a soft, reassuring smile, "I promise."

That word… _promise_ … It stirs memories from earlier, and for just a moment she wants to call him on it, wants to remind him that he swore to her that she would have a good time, that she'd enjoy herself in the woods. Biting back the irritable, antagonistic words is easy though, because she knows that there's a difference; knows what he's saying now. She can see exactly how conflicted he is, can read in his eyes a multitude of things and emotions – including a heavy wave of guilt, an instinctive belief that this is his fault. And that's why, despite all of her frustration and anger over the last few weeks, she has known that this case is simply a temporary hurdle for them, rather than a real conflict or a true obstacle.

Lifting her hand, she reaches for his, gently threading their fingers together as she gazes up at him and slowly shakes her head. This was an accident, her eyes tell him, this could have happened anytime, anywhere. She can see the way he's struggling for words, going over the same memory as she is, but it's irrelevant, immaterial. Some promises are far more important than others, some vows carry far greater weight and significance, and they both know it – she doesn't need to remind him of the promise he made her in the early hours of the morning that followed the night when everything changed between them. The morning when, exhausted but quietly elated, emotional but incredibly sincere, he asked her to give him a chance, to trust him as more than just a colleague, more than just a friend.

It's a simple decision, really.

"Okay," she nods, valiantly returning his smile with a watery one of her own.

The moment between them breaks with a final, searching gaze from him and a soft, reassuring squeeze of fingers by her. And then, effortlessly slipping back into his in-charge, business mode, Boyd pulls out his phone and dials Spence; there's no answer from the DI, or, when he tries her phone a moment later, from Stella either. Leaving a message he brusquely informs the pair of them that there's been an accident, and that they are to keep looking until the clearing is found.

"No reassuring details then," Grace remarks as he ends the call.

Boyd looks confused. "What?"

"Oh, you know, 'there's been an accident, but stay where you are and find the damn clearing'" she quotes, resisting – just – the urge to roll her eyes at him. "You don't think either of them would like to know that we're all right?"

"You're not all right."

"Oh, for God's _sake_!"

"What?"

Grace sighs heavily. "You are such a… _man_!"

"And that's somehow escaped your notice until now, has it?" Boyd smirks, and she doesn't need to look him in the eye to see the glittering amusement there. She does anyway, and finds herself caught in his gaze once again, almost hypnotised by the flashes of memory – very different now to those from just minutes ago – that are sparking hotly between them this time. It's always been like this, she reflects; sparring, heavy bickering, and banter aside, they've always had an uncanny ability to talk without words – to look into each other's eyes and just know what's going on, to share silent but meaningful exchanges that leave others baffled. It's both wondrous, and at times dangerous, has led to some truly spectacular arguments with all the things that have gone by quietly, painfully known but nevertheless ignored, unacknowledged and undealt with. The damage they can do is immeasurable, but the strength it offers them when they so choose is unbreakable.

Taking her hand in his once more and gently squeezing her fingers again , he offers her a vivid demonstration of that bond now, his tone quiet, heartfelt. "It's going to be okay, Grace, I promise. We'll be fine." In the same way that he can see the same things in her that she can in him, he knows what really going on in her mind, knows how, despite how much she trusts him, the rational and irrational are fighting for supremacy and that pain and uncertainty have already taken root there regarding their current predicament. All joking aside now, he's doing his absolute best to help her, and she knows it. Loves him even more for it.

Negotiating her foot back into the sock is difficult and entirely too excruciating, the process resulting in a gasping, choking scream that she only half manages to stifle, but the result is far better than the freezing chill of the waning afternoon against her bare skin. Still, it takes several long, deep breaths before her equilibrium begins to level out again, and as Boyd gets to his feet again in preparation to move off, Grace watches his movements, needing a point of focus to help steady herself. Using the nearest tree, he bashes mud out of the tread of the boot, the clods flying free from the sole and scattering into the undergrowth; ever the perfectionist, he inspects his handiwork carefully before shoving the toe deep into the back pocket of his jeans and looping the laces through his belt to secure it. "You're absolutely filthy, do you know that?" he asks as he turns his full attention back to her, pointedly looking her up and down, his eyes clearly lingering longer in some places than in others. "And now you're going to get me – and the bloody car – filthy as well."

"I fell over, Boyd. The ground is just a little muddy," Grace retorts dryly, choosing to ignore his shifting gaze. She doesn't miss the way he grins at the response, though, and too late, it occurs to her that he was trying to make her bite, trying, in his own obscure way, to make sure she really is going to be all right.

She scowls up at him, he smirks down at her.

"I particularly like the leafy hair ornaments," he goads, watching and grinning as she automatically reaches up to run her fingers through her hair, checking for the supposed greenery. Unsurprisingly, she finds nothing.

"Have you got nothing better to do than tease me?" she demands, but there's no ire there as she starts to refasten her coat, hoping to dispel some of the rapidly increasing shivers rippling along her arms and through her torso. Finding a clump of moss clinging to her sleeve, she flicks it at him in immature retribution. The wicked grin she gets in reply as she misses by at least a yard doesn't irritate her, instead it touches her deeply, reminds her of what it is she loves so much about him; his unrivalled ability to – when he wants to – cut through whatever it is that bothering her, be it anger, pain, sadness, anything, and distract her, make her smile or invoke laughter.

"Nope, not at all." His easy manner draws forth a smile and a wry shake of her head as she winds her scarf around her neck, firmly shutting out the chilly breeze. "Cheer up," he tells her, "it could be worse. You could be out here with Eve and stuck waiting who knows how long for rescue to get to you. There's no way she'd manage to carry you out."

"Don't even go there," she mutters, heavy unease spreading through her at the thought of being stranded – and cold – for so long.

"You were the one who wanted-"

"I know," she cuts him off. "And I'm sorry, all right? But can we please just go? It's a long way back to the car, and a long drive after that. And heaven knows how long it'll be in A and E once we get back to London."

"We're not going back to London," he informs her bluntly, "we're going straight to the nearest hospital."

"No, Boyd, I-"

"It's not negotiable, Grace. I've been to far too many first aid seminars over the years, and I've seen plenty of injuries – we're going to the first hospital available and that's that. I'm not arguing with you. I don't give a damn how late it is by the time we have to drive home." There's iron in his tone, and steel in his gaze as he looks down at her – clearly he isn't going to be moved on this. There's really nothing else to do but agree with him.

" _Fine_!"

If he thinks anything of her quick, irritable acquiescence, he says nothing, instead only asking if she's ready. Grace sighs; trust or not, and desperate desire to get out of the woods and back to civilisation aside, she's still more than a little apprehensive about the whole thing, but the idea of waiting for hours as day wanes slowly into night really doesn't bear thinking about.

"As I'll ever be, I suppose."

Boyd is as careful as he can, but even so, the manoeuvring it takes to get her settled on his back, arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist, brings yet more tears to her eyes. Squeezing them shut, Grace concentrates yet again on her breathing, hoping the steady, forced rhythm will dull the pain into submission.

There's clear, unmasked concern in his quiet, "You all right?"

It takes effort, but she blinks and looks around, nodding slowly and completely forgetting that he can't see her. It takes his soft, concerned, "Grace?" before she realises her mistake.

"Sorry – yes. Yes. Are you?"

"Fine." He shifts his feet, redistributing his weight, and hers. "Let's go then."

To their left as he starts to move, Grace spots a gap in the trees – the same one that caught her attention before she fell – and now, from her higher vantage point, she finds she can easily see what it is.

"Wait; Boyd, look!"

"What? Where?"

"Over there!" She let's go, points, and almost falls backwards, scrabbling madly to regain her grip and wincing as his hands clench tighter around her legs, sending a biting jolt down her thigh and calf.

"For God's sake, woman! Don't let bloody _go_!"

"Sorry," she apologises, heart thumping hard against her ribcage, the breath catching in her chest. " _Sorry_."

"It's fine… just… don't scare me like that again, hm?" Nodding to herself and humming agreement, Grace rests her head briefly against his, tightening her arms for a moment in the best imitation of a hug she can currently manage.

"Sorry," she repeats again, as much for good measure as to acknowledge the stupidity of her mistake. She feels him let out a long, controlled breath, feels the way the sudden, alarmed tension slowly fades out of his muscles and tries hard to imitate him.

"Okay, now what am I supposed to be looking at?"

This time she holds on tightly, carefully freeing just one arm and leaning further into him as she points. "Through the trees, over there. It's the clearing."

His eyes follow her fingers. "You have got to be fucking kidding me," he growls in disbelief. "Really?"

"Mm hmm," she replies, slightly preoccupied by what she's just discovered. Leaning as close to him as she is, the arm that's holding on to him can reach around to maintain a secure grip on the opposite shoulder, meaning she can safely keep a hand free. A hand that can wind a slow, meandering trail up the back of his neck to allow her fingers to play with the very soft, very short hairs at the base of his skull.

"Stop that," he protests, striding towards the clearing. Tucked snugly against his broad back, and thoroughly enjoying the blissful heat from his body that is slowly working its way through all the layers of clothing separating them, Grace grins to herself, absolutely intent on not stopping.

"Why?" She drags the word out, the mischief in her tone making it last far longer that it normally should.

"It's annoying!" He's brisk and straight to the point as he surveys the clearing now stretching out before them.

"And your point is…?" she queries, still absorbed in her ministrations, still amused by the possibilities that have just occurred to her.

Boyd ignores her, instead looking around at their discovery, trying to identify some sort of striking landmark, some kind of marker for future reference. "So Edwards was telling the truth after all."

As fascinated as she is with her new position and the view it affords her, and the ease with which she can now torment him, his observation instantly catches her attention, abruptly distracting her. "What?"

"Edwards," he repeats as he warns her to sit still and then fishes in his pocket for his phone again, this time using it to take a handful of temporary evidential photos. "He was telling the truth about the clearing."

"I heard you the first time," Grace snaps, suddenly furious again. "I'm just struggling to believe you came all the way out here – and dragged me along with you – when you weren't even _sure_ what you were looking for existed in the first place."

Boyd shrugs, the movement causing her to reflexively tighten her grip and glare at the back of his head. "Of course I wasn't sure – Edwards is a rotten liar and he proved it to us over and over during the investigation."

"But?" she demands, the unspoken word only too audible.

"But I still wasn't going to let Howard have the satisfaction of winning, not if there was even the most remote possibility that this place existed."

"You insisted before we left that it would be here!"

"And it _is_ here."

"But you didn't know that at the time."

"So?"

"So…" Grace falters, her anger making the words hard to locate. "So you lured me out here under false pretences."

"False pretences?" he laughs loudly, apparently genuinely amused by her outrage as he pockets the phone and turns to make his way back onto the trail and away from the clearing.

His amusement only provokes her already building fury, but, she realises with gloomy certainty, she's stuck. Absolutely stuck. Not that she thinks for a moment that he would change his mind and decide to make her wait for rescue services to get to them, but he'll make the trip as angry and uncomfortable as he possibly can if she keeps up with this, and she's absolutely positive she doesn't have it in her to maintain that level of irate squabbling with him. Not at the moment, anyway. Not before she's had some substantial pain relief, a cup of hot, strong tea, and the chance to lie down for a while.

Lapsing into livid silence she glares with real hostility into the passing trees as Boyd walks, biting her tongue to keep from sniping at him and opening the floor for an all-out war. He may love her unconditionally, and he may currently be highly concerned for her welfare and sympathetic to the level of discomfort she's in, but even that has its limits, and it's still a frightfully long way back to the car. Regrettable as it seems, passing the time in angry, heated argument isn't a particularly viable option, especially given that her plans for the evening – and the enthusiastic dissolution of the tension between them – are now looking incredibly unlikely.

Some Saturday this has turned out to be, she reflects gloomily as her thoughts begin to settle a little and the anger starts to fade. Leaning slightly closer to him, and wincing at the undeniably unpleasant ache that's now really beginning to spread through much of her body, Grace concentrates on the rhythm of Boyd's breathing, letting it lull her thoughts into a state of quiet. She wants her typical composure back, but the day just seems to be conspiring against her, making it impossible to find. She can't even remember the last time such a rocky, unpredictable deluge of shifting emotions swept through her in such a short space of time, and it's more than a little disconcerting, feels rather like she's been on an exhausting, unwanted rollercoaster ride.

She just wants to go home, wants to collapse onto the sofa – or better yet into the deep comfort of her bed – and take a nice long snooze. Not traipse off to a hospital and spend hours waiting to be seen, and then hours more waiting to be x-rayed and bandaged up. And no doubt saddled with crutches for who knows how long. Wretched things, crutches; she hates them with a passion, is a complete and total disaster on them. Nearly killed herself tripping in the busy, traffic-filled street last time.

And then there's going to be the inevitable health and safety drama come Monday morning – she just knows the Yard is going to have a field day with this one. A memory that can't be more than a month old resurfaces, reminds her of an unfortunate incident involving Stella, a paperclip, a fire-extinguisher, and a ridiculously extensive set of incident report forms that Boyd was subsequently required to fill in, and the gloomy reality that the end of the day isn't going to spell the closure of this whole unfortunate incident makes her want to groan and shout and swear in frustration. Then again, quite how Boyd is going to explain this away to the formidable personnel concerned, Grace really can't wait to see; compared to this, Stella's accident was nothing, and that took him far longer to deal with than she's sure was really necessary. Though the sheer volume he managed to achieve while doing so was quite impressive… as was the angry door slamming and the irritable pacing… Equally so the extra shirt button that was unfastened as he became more and more hot and bothered…

Hmm… maybe Monday won't be so bad after all, she thinks, a small smile beginning to form. And, given the limited walking ability situation, and the extremely close proximity of her office to his, she's going to have a front row seat to the inevitable temper tantrum that's sure to occur, and, if nothing else, that will definitely be fun to watch.

Then there's the guilt. Shifting her arms slightly to ease the pressure on her tired, aching muscles, Grace idly runs her fingers through his hair as she contemplates just how much Boyd might be willing to do for her in the coming hours, days and weeks while she heals; exactly what she might be able to talk him into. Regardless of what she says to him, he's still going to blame himself for this, still going to remain stubbornly convinced he's broken at least one promise to her. And being the kind of man who takes his promises very seriously, that will inevitably be accompanied by a lot of genuine, heartfelt attempts to make amends. At least until he gets bored, distracted, or loses his temper. Grinning wickedly to herself, she returns to her earlier task of teasing him, fingers trailing slowly and lazily across the highly sensitive back of his neck. Suddenly the next few hours don't seem quite so bad after all…


End file.
